His Better Half
by MandyQ
Summary: A paper shortage forces the guards in Azkaban to deliver bread wrapped in newspaper. Lucius sees some news that causes him great sadness and introspection. Short. OneShot. NON TDH COMPLIANT WRITTEN SPRING 2007.


DISCLAIMER: I don't own a newspaper: much less _The Daily Prophet. _I also do not own anyone who reads that paper or appears therein. All of those things are owned by JK Rowling, Scholastic, Warner, and people they decide to give/sell some to. I am not one of those people. I have made no money on this and I do not intend any infringement on anybody's copyrights or trademarks. I do, however, plan to do just that as soon as it's all in the public domain (but that'll be my next incarnation).

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He'd heard other men refer to their wives as 'my better half', but he knew that they didn't really mean it; not the way that he meant it. That statement wasn't as true for them as it was for him. Where his comrades' women may complement them; she _completed_ him.

It wasn't only that she was tender when she was harsh and that she was reason when he was engulfed in madness. She was passion when he was ambivalent. She was temperance when he was over zealous. She was stillness in his chaos and perfection in a world filled with flaws. But it was not only these things that let him know that she was his better half; she was everything to his anything and she was all of the world that he needed or could stand.

She was the reason he knew that he could love, and fear, and want, and wish, and hope. She was the only reason he'd ever felt like a whole man. She was the part of him that was precious and unspoiled. She was the only part of him that had remained alive in this wretched place.

Lucius stared down at the grease-stained page in his hand. He'd read it a dozen times over and still it made no sense. He treasured this page even as he hated it.

The war had wreaked havoc on the owl post; everyone knew that. It was no secret even to those held inside of the walls of Azkaban that nothing had gone untouched by the conflict. This week was not the first time that the prisoners had received their loaves of bread wrapped in sections of _The Daily Prophet_ instead of the wax paper that was standard.

Unable to receive letters and packages, Lucius had begun to look forward to these shortages. The single page of the news that came to him nearly every month was the only real means of gaining knowledge of the outside world that he'd had access to in years. It had been nearly five years, to be exact, since he had seen the light of day or heard a bird singing.

Not that he gave a great deal of a damn about such things as singing birds, but the occasional newspaper would have been a nice thing to have. And he wondered if this page was given him for comfort or for torture; as he was certain that it was not given him by accident. He both wanted to thank and to strangle whoever it was that had made sure he would see this paper.

He'd opened his loaf of bread to see a dazzling picture of his own wife occupying a quarter of the page. Narcissa looked well, although a little too thin for his comfort, and she was smiling. He missed that smile more than all the fresh air and sunshine in Britain. Even on the one occasion she had been granted a visit with him he hadn't seen her smile like that. Was it possible that he had forgotten just how beautiful she really was?

He stared at the picture for more than a full minute before his eyes scanned down for news of why she had been so prominently featured in _The Daily Prophet_. When he saw the headline just below the picture, his heart fell into the pit of his stomach.

**Wealthy Socialite Dead at Own Hand.**

He read the line over and over; willing it to change. It couldn't be true. It _couldn't _be true. He felt hot tears of anger springing to his eyes. He knew that _The Daily Prophet_ had published the story of his son's death when the boy was still very much alive. Perhaps that was their ploy again? It just could not be true. He finally gathered up the nerve to read the article printed below the ghastly headline.

_Narcissa Malfoy (nee Black), prominent philanthropist and Wizards' rights activist, was found dead in her home on Thursday. And un-named Ministerial Guard officer found Mrs. Malfoy in her bed after having seen a "suspicious flash of green light" through the window during a routine patrol. He entered the house to investigate and discovered the body, the victim of an apparent suicide. A representative of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement confirms that there were no signs of struggle in the room. _

"_Mrs. Malfoy's wand was in her hand, and there was a crack in the mirror right across from her." Her death has been officially ruled a suicide._

_Mrs. Malfoy was the chairwitch of the Ladies Aid Society, and sat on numerous charitable boards and committees including: the Sisters of Mercy, The Children's Relief Fund, The Association for the Restoration of War Torn Britain, and The Board of Educational Evaluation in Wizarding Europe. She was perhaps best known for her crusade to improve the conditions in soldiers' hospitals and for prisoners of war. Mrs. Malfoy's husband is currently held in Azkaban as a suspected enemy combatant and was therefore unavailable for comment._

_Brief services will be held on Sunday, the eighth of September, 2001, at sundown, at the Black family's ancestral estate: Kidwelly Castle; Wales. In lieu of flowers, it has been requested that well-wishers make a donation to the Malfoy Trust: an organization begun by Mrs. Malfoy herself which serves to pay for supplies and staffing of military field hospitals throughout Wizarding Britain and Europe._

_Mrs. Malfoy was preceded in death by her parents Cygnus and Druella Rosier Black, her son Draco Malfoy, and two un-named infants. She is survived by her husband Lucius Malfoy, her sisters Bellatrix Black Lestrange and Andromeda Black Tonks, a niece and many cousins, friends, and admirers._

She was gone.

She was his soul and his world and she was gone.

Part of him wanted to tear the page to pieces, not to be forced to look at it any more; as though eliminating the words from the page would somehow make it not true. But somehow, deep down, he knew that it was true. He looked down at the smiling picture of his beautiful Narcissa and read the caption beneath it. "_At last year's Heroes Ball. Narcissa Malfoy: November 14, 1955- September 5, 2001."_

He couldn't tear the page. He couldn't wad it up. That photo was nearly the only thing he had left of her. Lucius shook his head and reached down into his pockets, withdrawing from each a threadbare and worn bit of black lace. They were her gloves. She had word them when she had come to see him- that one time she had been granted access. She had come to let him know that the news of their only son's death had been false and she had brought him a parcel of gingersnap cookies. That had been years ago, but he could still imagine the scent of her on the gloves she'd left with him. He remembered how she'd looked that day; her dark green traveling costume and black taffeta hat. He remembered what it had felt like to kiss her that last time and how he cursed himself when she left for not being able to kiss her like that whenever she wanted. As though he had ever needed a reminder of how much he loved her; that day had been it.

No woman who would get leave to visit Azkaban when none was truly available in order to pass a message to him that might have gotten them all killed had anyone caught on would ever take her own life. And certainly not his Narcissa. She was too vital, too alive, and too stubborn to give up like that. Suicide was the refuge of the weak and Narcissa Black Malfoy would never entertain such a notion. That's not who she is. Who she _was_….

He could not think of her in the past tense. She was current; she was now. She was the world that kept spinning even though time had stopped for him. She was the sliver of humanity in him that was still aware of the passage of time and of events that went beyond the incessant dripping of the leaky pipe in the corner of his eight foot square cell.

She had been his soul mate, his conscience, his muse and his truest smile for more than a quarter century and now he had nothing. She had been the half of his being that was able to live even when he wished for death. And death had come to him now; but the wrong death. He had lost the best things about himself and about the world. His better half had died without him.

All the soul he had was gone.

He had only to wait for his body to follow.

He reverently folded the photo from the paper and tucked it in his shirt, as close to his heart as he could; and he lay down on the floor of his cell and waited for death to make him whole again.

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I hope that was better than I think it is. I sat on it for 2 days and didn't post it, and then I thought I'd just post it with this note attached: NOT my best work. Let me know if you didn't hate it. If you did hate it, I will infer that from the lack of reviews. I usually invite flames, but not this time- you couldn't say anything bad to me that I haven't already thought so I will take your silence as flame enough. Thanks... There should be another long piece started today or tomorrow (although I have another one shot in my head, too). I'm thinking 1980 will be an interesting year to write; Evan Rosier dies, Voldemort is at the height of his power, and Lucius and Narcissa have a baby at home. Could be fun!

-MQ


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